It’s impossible to immerse yourself in a new job, to live it, breathe it, and not find yourself changed by it.
The proof of this change came last week over dinner with friends….
While sitting with friends (some old, some new), the cute guy two seats down from me put down his napkin and said that he couldn’t eat another bite of his sandwich because he was full.
I promptly replied “See if you can eat two more bites. Then you can be done.”
It wasn’t until I looked up from my meal and heard everyone laughing did I remember that I wasn’t eating my meal with picky 8 year olds who hate eating their lunch.
But for the record, the guy DID eat two more bites. And then we shared a dessert.
Something an 8 year old would never do.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
My Uncomfortable Zone.
Like Pavlov’s dogs, I’m learning that certain triggers will send me into an unplanned response. More specifically, certain phrases will send me into a blood curdling, hair tingling, cold and uncomfortable sweat that will prompt me to lie in the fetal position under my bed and drink whiskey until I think I AM Johnny Cash.
Okay, I exaggerate, but here are some phrases that make me prone to fits of extreme rage, or you know, just uncomfortable or unhappy…
- “I signed us up for karokee, stop drinking so fast, let’s do this song sober!”
- “Hi there, this is the Internal Revenue Service. Can we please speak to Amaya?”
- “You’re late” (I hate,hate, HATE being late)
- “It’s time for a pap smear!”
- ” I think you are silly/cute/a joke”.
- “It broke” (And to quote Louis Armstrong, ‘if you have to ask, you’ll never know’)
- “Now, I know we said we weren’t going to cut a lot of hair off this time, but I thought these Heidi Klume bangs would really suit you. Hey, why are you crying?”
- “Nope, we don’t have you booked on this airplane, sorry! Now can you step aside for the next person in line?”
- “You're car is totalled."
- “I don’t want to date you anymore, but happy birthday.”
- “Ma’am, I need to see your license and registration”
- "I have been going to dinner and movies with a gal pal."
- “You’re a democrat? Wow, I would have totally pegged you as a Republican.” (this one was more funny, but I was shocked nonetheless)
- “I don’t watch The Office. Wait, why are you looking at me like that? What’s wrong?”
And of course, the ever popular, never appreciated
- “I have some bad news”
Okay, I exaggerate, but here are some phrases that make me prone to fits of extreme rage, or you know, just uncomfortable or unhappy…
- “I signed us up for karokee, stop drinking so fast, let’s do this song sober!”
- “Hi there, this is the Internal Revenue Service. Can we please speak to Amaya?”
- “You’re late” (I hate,hate, HATE being late)
- “It’s time for a pap smear!”
- ” I think you are silly/cute/a joke”.
- “It broke” (And to quote Louis Armstrong, ‘if you have to ask, you’ll never know’)
- “Now, I know we said we weren’t going to cut a lot of hair off this time, but I thought these Heidi Klume bangs would really suit you. Hey, why are you crying?”
- “Nope, we don’t have you booked on this airplane, sorry! Now can you step aside for the next person in line?”
- “You're car is totalled."
- “I don’t want to date you anymore, but happy birthday.”
- “Ma’am, I need to see your license and registration”
- "I have been going to dinner and movies with a gal pal."
- “You’re a democrat? Wow, I would have totally pegged you as a Republican.” (this one was more funny, but I was shocked nonetheless)
- “I don’t watch The Office. Wait, why are you looking at me like that? What’s wrong?”
And of course, the ever popular, never appreciated
- “I have some bad news”
Monday, March 08, 2010
Instant Gratification in an Instant World.
We live in an instant world. Instant coffee, instant messaging, instant car starters. We wait for nothing. We can fast forward our commercials, email our letters and drive-thru for our meals.
Everything happens so quick that when I actually am forced to wait for something; eggs to cook, Saturdays paper, a doctor to see me, life suddenly seems to move very slow. Too slow. Unbearably slow.
While toe-tapping and watch checking this morning waiting for an airline flight confirmation, I got to thinking about what is WORTH waiting for. What would I never want to be found quicker, what I wouldn’t want to experience sooner, what I would hate for technology to ’speed up’. My list of what’s worth waiting for includes…
- homemade pie crust. Actually, any food that’s homemade. Instant potatoes scare me more than Tara Reid.
- babies.
- the third date kiss. Not the “it’s the third date so we should kiss”, but the “I’m so excited about you, I need to kiss you” kind.
- a proper goodbye.
- handwritten letters in the mail that confirm I’m not the only one who misspells “foreign”.
- my birthday.
- someone who loves you even on the days (most especially on the days) you don’t love yourself.
- garden peas.
- the shoes you adore (but cost more than your grandmother's car) to come on sale.
- a glued macaroni picture addressed to you in crayon.
- an “I love you” to be said sober, fully clothed and vertical.
- movie sequels with an actual plot.
- waiting in line to meet Cinderella.
- an explanation for a broken heart, missed lunch appointment or $489 vehicle repair bill.
- seeing your favorite piece of artwork so close up your eyes can trace the paint strokes and find the pieces of hair stuck in the paint.
- the perfect dress.
Suddenly waiting doesn’t seem so bad.
Everything happens so quick that when I actually am forced to wait for something; eggs to cook, Saturdays paper, a doctor to see me, life suddenly seems to move very slow. Too slow. Unbearably slow.
While toe-tapping and watch checking this morning waiting for an airline flight confirmation, I got to thinking about what is WORTH waiting for. What would I never want to be found quicker, what I wouldn’t want to experience sooner, what I would hate for technology to ’speed up’. My list of what’s worth waiting for includes…
- homemade pie crust. Actually, any food that’s homemade. Instant potatoes scare me more than Tara Reid.
- babies.
- the third date kiss. Not the “it’s the third date so we should kiss”, but the “I’m so excited about you, I need to kiss you” kind.
- a proper goodbye.
- handwritten letters in the mail that confirm I’m not the only one who misspells “foreign”.
- my birthday.
- someone who loves you even on the days (most especially on the days) you don’t love yourself.
- garden peas.
- the shoes you adore (but cost more than your grandmother's car) to come on sale.
- a glued macaroni picture addressed to you in crayon.
- an “I love you” to be said sober, fully clothed and vertical.
- movie sequels with an actual plot.
- waiting in line to meet Cinderella.
- an explanation for a broken heart, missed lunch appointment or $489 vehicle repair bill.
- seeing your favorite piece of artwork so close up your eyes can trace the paint strokes and find the pieces of hair stuck in the paint.
- the perfect dress.
Suddenly waiting doesn’t seem so bad.
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
Happy Birthday Dr. Suess
I’m sitting here in my classroom- one that was so ugly when I first met it, I almost cried. It was a thousand shades of beige with ripped construction paper and borders that didn’t quite meet around bulletin boards. It had dirty walls, smeared windows and it smelled like my grandmother’s basement. It had torn posters haphazardly dangling from the last cold remnants of sticky tack, a small collection of tattered books housed in a dirty plastic bin and 10 lonely desks stood in the center of the room.
I look around now. I have brightly colored material stretched over each bulletin board, cheerful border lining each one. I have a dazzling collection of books- on Robin Hood and magic and planets and a boy named Fudge filling a wooden bookcase and labeled bins and sorted in magazine holders. I have 19 desks filled with pencils and crayola markers and papers lined with thoughts of people young enough to still be brave enough to write down their wildest ideas. I have an orchid blooming at a reading table, the Mona Lisa hangs from the wall looking down and I have three dozen gorgeously fat tulips blooming on my desk. It is a room that vibrates with potential and possibility and excitement when you enter. It is absolutely everything I ever wanted my classroom to be.
The funny thing is, I’ve been missing it. September curb stomped me, wore me down until I was nothing but a shell that rose each morning at 5:20 am and came home each evening at 4:30 pm. I’ve been crabby and tired and when I looked around my room instead of seeing the colors and flowers and solved math problems of my genius class stapled to the bulletin board, I saw unfinished marking, the need for more books, a to-do list that multiplied every second I took my eyes away. I saw everything it wasn’t instead of what it was.
I have a poster hanging in my room. It’s a Dr. Seuss quote- one of my favorites, it says
"You have brains in your head
and shoes on your feet.
You can steer yourself
in any direction you choose."
I’m so quick to tell me students they can do anything, be anyone, accomplish anything- that I’ve been forgetting that I can do the same too. I can steer myself any direction I choose- even steer myself away from a career responsible, (but soul depleting) schedule that leaves me aching for more and settling for less. And sometimes accomplishing less- spending less time at the school, quitting before the sun has left the sky, refusing to battle the photocopier one more time, is doing more. Sometimes crossing off fewer things on your to-do list (or just chucking the to-do list altogether) provides a kind of sanity you can’t find anywhere else.
Happy Birthday Dr. Seuss.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
He Is Under My Skin, Dammit.
There are those who you love. Those who love you. The lucky few who fall firmly into both groups. And then there are those people, the rare- and heartbreakingly lovely people who seem to find a way to seep under your skin and take up residence somewhere close to your heart. Like a memory you won’t forget and can’t convince yourself you should, these people have a lure that makes them impossible to say goodbye to- even when you’ve tried.
I have such a person. A fantastically brilliant, maddening, charming and utterly frustrating person that has a brownstone near my main artery. A person who’s punctuation inspires me to remember to put in my apostrophes. A person who reminds me that there is someone else out there who would choose vanilla over chocolate. A person who reminds me men aren’t all that bad. Due to reasons of fate, logic and personal sanity, it makes sense for us not to be friends. And we aren’t. Anymore. We are a weird hybrid of wary acquaintances and eager strangers- wanting to talk but never knowing what to say.
The hard part was learning that’s how it should be.
I’ve finally discovered that when someone has managed a way under your skin, has set up within striking distance of your heart and hunkered down for some time, you can’t really evict them. You don’t have a choice anymore. Everything they’ve ever said, or yelled or whispered- is stuck with you.- fixed in you. You cannot push ’delete’ as I has once hoped. When it’s impossible to say goodbye, wish them well, find a way to mean it and keep going. It doesn’t get less confusing but it does get less painful.
And if you are very, very lucky you will find that one day when you least expect it -it doesn’t hurt at all.
And that’s how it should be
I have such a person. A fantastically brilliant, maddening, charming and utterly frustrating person that has a brownstone near my main artery. A person who’s punctuation inspires me to remember to put in my apostrophes. A person who reminds me that there is someone else out there who would choose vanilla over chocolate. A person who reminds me men aren’t all that bad. Due to reasons of fate, logic and personal sanity, it makes sense for us not to be friends. And we aren’t. Anymore. We are a weird hybrid of wary acquaintances and eager strangers- wanting to talk but never knowing what to say.
The hard part was learning that’s how it should be.
I’ve finally discovered that when someone has managed a way under your skin, has set up within striking distance of your heart and hunkered down for some time, you can’t really evict them. You don’t have a choice anymore. Everything they’ve ever said, or yelled or whispered- is stuck with you.- fixed in you. You cannot push ’delete’ as I has once hoped. When it’s impossible to say goodbye, wish them well, find a way to mean it and keep going. It doesn’t get less confusing but it does get less painful.
And if you are very, very lucky you will find that one day when you least expect it -it doesn’t hurt at all.
And that’s how it should be
My Secrets
I've been keeping a lot of secrets lately and I think this would be a great way to unleash them. I'm not here to admit or confess who these are about so don't bother asking. You know who you are.
We actually stole it more than once.
It would be easier if I loved you, but I don’t. So stop trying to make me.
It would be easier if I didn’t love you, but I do.
You are not allergic, you just don’t like it. There is a difference.
An ultimatum will not work, it shocks me that you think it would.
I wish you wouldn’t do things that make it impossible for me to like you.
I think of that talk everyday single day.
You tell me too much.
I avoid you because I know I keep letting you down.
Sometimes I wish you would just let me down- it would level the playing field.
I don’t get you anymore and it makes me sad.
You are the funniest, weirdest and most original person ever and I’m completely jealous of your brain.
I wish I knew how to be closer to you.
I like you when you're you.
You keep pronouncing it wrong and I don’t know how to correct you without looking like a jerk.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Valentine's Day
I’m tired. Not in the “I just ran a marathon and feel so ALIVE but yet so tired I need a good nap and a bottle of gatorade” way but in the “I woke up today counting all the things I had to do before I could go back to sleep” sort of way.
It feels like it’s a bad sign when the idea of a life exhausts you.
Maybe it’s the month. Valentines Day sends a jolt of love soaked fuel to coupled people. Since I am single, I used my energy in deflecting all the conversations of love, lust and “I can’t believe how much we are meant to be together” talk. Right now, I feel I have nothing to add to any conversation that includes the word love. My body is starting to physically convulse when I see yet another happy couple shopping at Safeway. It’s not pretty and I’m not proud. Maybe I’m suffering from PMS Of Valentine's Day.
Or maybe it’s the weather. I’m a scarf whore but I’m getting tired of the 26 layers of long sleeves and fleece zip ups and warm socks that I must don before leaving the house. I’m tired of walking slowly, planning every step in advance, searching the sidewalk for a glorious patch of raw pavement not glazed with ice. I’m tired of thicky icy roads that become a deathtrap when your car has tires that are more bald than Britney was. I drive nervously, hunched over my steering wheel like a grandmother and feel my neck muscles get angry.
It could be my job. Even thought I haven't been there in a week. I love my job. I love working with kids and putting on plays and listening intently as they describe the color of icing they had on their birthday cake. But sometimes pretending that each of their new discoveries is as exciting to you as to them can leave me searching for tylenol. I’m not talking about learning how to read a challenging word, or memorizing a difficult monologue- that’s the good stuff that’s easy to get excited for. But showering excitement every class over new shoes or pet iguanas can be difficult and draining. Realizing that sometimes you just don’t care about Roddy the iguana can make a girl feel bad.
Or maybe it’s nothing so easily defined in one group- maybe it’s a cluster of little things. Thinking of unreturned phone calls, unanswered questions, not understanding how to file my taxes, searching for my favorite pair of cashmere mittens I lost , or sweating under a looming deadline I set for myself in regards to a project I started for fun. Maybe I’m tired because I keep making the same mistake- missing the same people I told myself I do not miss. Maybe I’m tired because I don’t understand what’s happening on Lost or because today it feels like I’m the only person at work having a bad hair day. Maybe it’s all of those things, or none of them. Or maybe I just need a nap.
Valentines Day is approaching. Actually, I feel like it charging towards me in a blur of pink and red cellophane. I first noticed this the second week of January while at the mall searching for new mittens. Rows and rows of pink and red boxed chocolates, (enough to throw a diabetic into a seizure with a single glance), stuffed toys clutching hearts with stitched cliches and bouquets of roses were all crammed together in a shiny, blurry wonderland of love. It sort of made me nauseous.
As a kid I loved Valentines Day. I’m a craft dork, so the idea of using special scissors and thick construction paper to make cards for everyone I loved seemed not only fun but insanely exciting. I liked the idea of knowing there was one day a year it was expected to say exactly how you felt, the fact the world was smeared in pink and the discovery of who liked you by how they signed their name on their Valentine to you -From? Love? Always?.
I’ve kept valentines that meant something to me and as I look at them I realize that none are from recent boyfriends or guys I met after I got my drivers licence. They are all from a time before spell check and self doubt. My favorite one I received in grade three from a boy with messy blonde hair. It has glue smears on the front and the inside reads (in messy boy printing) “ I’m not 100% shure, but I think I might like you. I will let you know”. I miss that.
Now I feel like Valentine’s Day is the a holiday that truly divides mankind into two groups each unwilling to concede that the other group may be onto something. (Forget the war, it’s Valentine’s Day that’s splitting the world apart) There is the group who loves, loves, loves Valentines Day (and are unsurprisingly spending the day with someone they love, love, love) and the group who hates the holiday and views it as “just another opportunity by large corporations to make you feel like you need to buy shit you don’t need to show people you care” as one friend so eloquently put it. Of course, these are extremes I’ve noticed over the years so in a fit of Elle Woods inspired productivity; I went to the streets and asked the people. (Okay, so I mass emailed, it’s cold outside.) Here is what I found…
My theory of the two opposing groups holds steady- sort of. The majority of coupled girls love the holiday. Not for the opportunity to show someone you love them (“I don’t need a day to tell my boyfriend I love him”) but because you like getting presents (“when else is it mandatory that I get flowers?”). I’m not going to lie, as a single girl I found this to be a disappointing discovery. You’ve found him! You shouldn’t just expect flowers, you should go bowling and drink diet soda with straws! Seriously though, I may be single but I’ve dated enough to know that expecting things from a man to ground you in happiness will never lead to anything good. (Also, I’m now considering the fact that I may still be single because I think bowling and drinking diet soda constitutes romance.)
Coupled guys have other ideas. The majority doesn’t like the pressure it puts them under (“I hate knowing that she’s imagined something better than whatever I end up doing”). Fair enough. I love my gender but after talking to what some of the coupled girls are expecting… this Valentines, I would be wary too. Heads up ladies, none of you are getting proposed to on a glacier with a string orchestra in the background- at least none that I know of.
Single guys hate it because they think “that much attention to a holiday focused on flowers is stupid”. One insightful (and refreshingly honest) guy admitted that he didn’t like it Valentines Day because it made not being in love feel like he was failing.
Single girls seem to feel it’s necessary to show the world (and themselves) that they are not just okay but are thriving this holiday season by going out in large packs. High-heeled, low cut shirt armies that take over clubs and recount all the reasons they are glad they are single (#1 being you won’t be disappointed when your boyfriend forgets it’s Valentines Day). Some recounted these nights made them feel better, confirming they are not alone. Others admitted they felt worse and woke up with a hangover plus a few phone numbers of guys they would never have considered taking if they weren’t trying so hard to feel like they were happy alone.
In short, I guess no one is guaranteed a perfect Valentines Day regardless of your dating status. My friend Stephen pointed out that Valentines is a lot like New Years. A lot of expectations with no guarantees it’s going to result in love, love, love. I suppose the best any of us can hope for is a construction paper Valentine from someone who tells you exactly how they feel- even if they are not 100% sure.
Happy Valentine's Day to all :)
It feels like it’s a bad sign when the idea of a life exhausts you.
Maybe it’s the month. Valentines Day sends a jolt of love soaked fuel to coupled people. Since I am single, I used my energy in deflecting all the conversations of love, lust and “I can’t believe how much we are meant to be together” talk. Right now, I feel I have nothing to add to any conversation that includes the word love. My body is starting to physically convulse when I see yet another happy couple shopping at Safeway. It’s not pretty and I’m not proud. Maybe I’m suffering from PMS Of Valentine's Day.
Or maybe it’s the weather. I’m a scarf whore but I’m getting tired of the 26 layers of long sleeves and fleece zip ups and warm socks that I must don before leaving the house. I’m tired of walking slowly, planning every step in advance, searching the sidewalk for a glorious patch of raw pavement not glazed with ice. I’m tired of thicky icy roads that become a deathtrap when your car has tires that are more bald than Britney was. I drive nervously, hunched over my steering wheel like a grandmother and feel my neck muscles get angry.
It could be my job. Even thought I haven't been there in a week. I love my job. I love working with kids and putting on plays and listening intently as they describe the color of icing they had on their birthday cake. But sometimes pretending that each of their new discoveries is as exciting to you as to them can leave me searching for tylenol. I’m not talking about learning how to read a challenging word, or memorizing a difficult monologue- that’s the good stuff that’s easy to get excited for. But showering excitement every class over new shoes or pet iguanas can be difficult and draining. Realizing that sometimes you just don’t care about Roddy the iguana can make a girl feel bad.
Or maybe it’s nothing so easily defined in one group- maybe it’s a cluster of little things. Thinking of unreturned phone calls, unanswered questions, not understanding how to file my taxes, searching for my favorite pair of cashmere mittens I lost , or sweating under a looming deadline I set for myself in regards to a project I started for fun. Maybe I’m tired because I keep making the same mistake- missing the same people I told myself I do not miss. Maybe I’m tired because I don’t understand what’s happening on Lost or because today it feels like I’m the only person at work having a bad hair day. Maybe it’s all of those things, or none of them. Or maybe I just need a nap.
Valentines Day is approaching. Actually, I feel like it charging towards me in a blur of pink and red cellophane. I first noticed this the second week of January while at the mall searching for new mittens. Rows and rows of pink and red boxed chocolates, (enough to throw a diabetic into a seizure with a single glance), stuffed toys clutching hearts with stitched cliches and bouquets of roses were all crammed together in a shiny, blurry wonderland of love. It sort of made me nauseous.
As a kid I loved Valentines Day. I’m a craft dork, so the idea of using special scissors and thick construction paper to make cards for everyone I loved seemed not only fun but insanely exciting. I liked the idea of knowing there was one day a year it was expected to say exactly how you felt, the fact the world was smeared in pink and the discovery of who liked you by how they signed their name on their Valentine to you -From? Love? Always?.
I’ve kept valentines that meant something to me and as I look at them I realize that none are from recent boyfriends or guys I met after I got my drivers licence. They are all from a time before spell check and self doubt. My favorite one I received in grade three from a boy with messy blonde hair. It has glue smears on the front and the inside reads (in messy boy printing) “ I’m not 100% shure, but I think I might like you. I will let you know”. I miss that.
Now I feel like Valentine’s Day is the a holiday that truly divides mankind into two groups each unwilling to concede that the other group may be onto something. (Forget the war, it’s Valentine’s Day that’s splitting the world apart) There is the group who loves, loves, loves Valentines Day (and are unsurprisingly spending the day with someone they love, love, love) and the group who hates the holiday and views it as “just another opportunity by large corporations to make you feel like you need to buy shit you don’t need to show people you care” as one friend so eloquently put it. Of course, these are extremes I’ve noticed over the years so in a fit of Elle Woods inspired productivity; I went to the streets and asked the people. (Okay, so I mass emailed, it’s cold outside.) Here is what I found…
My theory of the two opposing groups holds steady- sort of. The majority of coupled girls love the holiday. Not for the opportunity to show someone you love them (“I don’t need a day to tell my boyfriend I love him”) but because you like getting presents (“when else is it mandatory that I get flowers?”). I’m not going to lie, as a single girl I found this to be a disappointing discovery. You’ve found him! You shouldn’t just expect flowers, you should go bowling and drink diet soda with straws! Seriously though, I may be single but I’ve dated enough to know that expecting things from a man to ground you in happiness will never lead to anything good. (Also, I’m now considering the fact that I may still be single because I think bowling and drinking diet soda constitutes romance.)
Coupled guys have other ideas. The majority doesn’t like the pressure it puts them under (“I hate knowing that she’s imagined something better than whatever I end up doing”). Fair enough. I love my gender but after talking to what some of the coupled girls are expecting… this Valentines, I would be wary too. Heads up ladies, none of you are getting proposed to on a glacier with a string orchestra in the background- at least none that I know of.
Single guys hate it because they think “that much attention to a holiday focused on flowers is stupid”. One insightful (and refreshingly honest) guy admitted that he didn’t like it Valentines Day because it made not being in love feel like he was failing.
Single girls seem to feel it’s necessary to show the world (and themselves) that they are not just okay but are thriving this holiday season by going out in large packs. High-heeled, low cut shirt armies that take over clubs and recount all the reasons they are glad they are single (#1 being you won’t be disappointed when your boyfriend forgets it’s Valentines Day). Some recounted these nights made them feel better, confirming they are not alone. Others admitted they felt worse and woke up with a hangover plus a few phone numbers of guys they would never have considered taking if they weren’t trying so hard to feel like they were happy alone.
In short, I guess no one is guaranteed a perfect Valentines Day regardless of your dating status. My friend Stephen pointed out that Valentines is a lot like New Years. A lot of expectations with no guarantees it’s going to result in love, love, love. I suppose the best any of us can hope for is a construction paper Valentine from someone who tells you exactly how they feel- even if they are not 100% sure.
Happy Valentine's Day to all :)
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
PS thats BS
You know when you know something.
You know it.
Every fiber of your being knows it.
Yet, you don't want to realize it, admit it to yourself yet.
But you know it.
Know that the, whatever it might be that you don't want to admit to yourself or realize or be honest with yourself about whatever, it's true.
You listen to the bullshit as it's being vomited up to you in conversation. You listen, but you don't hear it. You can almost see the vomit of the words floating through the air.
Still, you choose not to know it. It's not really affecting you one way or another, so what difference does it really make?
Then, one day out of nowhere you're hit with the vomit of bullshit.
WHAM! Right in the middle of your gut. The kind of jolt that even takes you by surprise. You weren't expecting the ball let alone the jolt. Where did that come from?
Hit with a ball of bullshit.
Your not really surprised by the ball of vomit and bullshit that you've been hit with, but it still makes you break into a cold sweat. Not a big one. Just enough to give you a chill that no one would notice but you.
Then you can't deny it.
Your gut hurts from the blow.
Your covered in it.
All you can do is stand up, strip naked, step into a hot shower, and wash yourself off.
And make a note that you won't believe the lies again.
You know it.
Every fiber of your being knows it.
Yet, you don't want to realize it, admit it to yourself yet.
But you know it.
Know that the, whatever it might be that you don't want to admit to yourself or realize or be honest with yourself about whatever, it's true.
You listen to the bullshit as it's being vomited up to you in conversation. You listen, but you don't hear it. You can almost see the vomit of the words floating through the air.
Still, you choose not to know it. It's not really affecting you one way or another, so what difference does it really make?
Then, one day out of nowhere you're hit with the vomit of bullshit.
WHAM! Right in the middle of your gut. The kind of jolt that even takes you by surprise. You weren't expecting the ball let alone the jolt. Where did that come from?
Hit with a ball of bullshit.
Your not really surprised by the ball of vomit and bullshit that you've been hit with, but it still makes you break into a cold sweat. Not a big one. Just enough to give you a chill that no one would notice but you.
Then you can't deny it.
Your gut hurts from the blow.
Your covered in it.
All you can do is stand up, strip naked, step into a hot shower, and wash yourself off.
And make a note that you won't believe the lies again.
Monday, February 01, 2010
Dumb blonde
Sometimes I am known to be a bit ditzy. Not all the time. Sometimes. Like sending something to Linden Street when it hasn't been Linden street in years. Not only am I embarrassed, but I'm dissappointed. I think with some proper apologies I will hope to be in good graces again. This is horrible.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
The End.
Within the past week or so I've had several people mention closure to me.
The relationship has ended and they want, need, are desperately seeking, closure.
K.
Here's what I think about closure. It's a myth. You can try to seek out the closure with the other person, you can try to have the relationship ending conversation, you can try to not hurt the other person's feelings by having whatever imaginary conversation in your head only to try and have it replayed in an actual conversation with the person, but let's face it, that conversation from head to mouth never takes place.
I need closure.
I think if I just talked to him then I will get the closure I need and be able to move on.
"Bullshit". Never gonna happen. Any 'closure' you may have already reached in your time apart is going to be sprung wide open and you will have to start all over again because you keep talking to each other. You keep picking at the wound. Let the wound heal. Stop talking for a few months, then talk to each other. Move on from each other and then see where you both are after that.
Closure is a myth.
Time.
Time is what is needed for two people to move on.
I had a friend who was talking about the need for closure and I was telling her everything she didn't want to hear, but it was the truth not some garbage she was hoping to have reinforced by someone older.
She asked me, "Well, how did you move on? You seem like the most independent person I know and like you don't need anyone. How do you do it."(Internally rolling my eyes)
"Well, I just don't talk about it. And time. I've remained friends with all of my ex's, but not right off the bat. We didn't talk, we moved onto other relationships and then we became friends.
The "closure" happened months, years later and not because of anything that was said, it was time."
Here's another thought. I don't talk about my ex's. I'm sure some people might think I never date or have sex, because believe it or not unless you are a close friend, I see no need to blab about it to everyone I encounter. (Obviously, the blog is my outlet.)People who seek closure are perhaps the one who have done something wrong in the relationship. Maybe the people who seek closure are the ones who have the need to make-up, heal because of something they did wrong.
In all of my major relationships I was cheated on. I had no need for closure. I just needed to heal. The men, within a few months, all called me up and left some sort of message on my machine when they knew I wouldn't be home apologizing and wanting to talk to me. Within a day or two I would call. They needed closure, they were sorry.
K.
I've moved on. You messed up. You had a good thing and YOU messed up. YOU cheated on ME.If you need to talk, then talk, but I'm not going to forgive you if that's what you're looking for. Deal with it. The "closure" you're seeking from me? It ain't gonna happen.
Maybe the ones who seek the myth called closure are really the ones who messed up in some way in the relationship.I've never messed up, (seriously, cheating was the breaking factor in all of the realtionships. Dating, that's another story, but relationships I had no need for closure. No messing up on my part and all of the men will back me up on this. I'm a damn good girlfriend. I just choose badly. Anyway.)
Closure is a myth. Time is the reality that pain takes time to heal.
The relationship has ended and they want, need, are desperately seeking, closure.
K.
Here's what I think about closure. It's a myth. You can try to seek out the closure with the other person, you can try to have the relationship ending conversation, you can try to not hurt the other person's feelings by having whatever imaginary conversation in your head only to try and have it replayed in an actual conversation with the person, but let's face it, that conversation from head to mouth never takes place.
I need closure.
I think if I just talked to him then I will get the closure I need and be able to move on.
"Bullshit". Never gonna happen. Any 'closure' you may have already reached in your time apart is going to be sprung wide open and you will have to start all over again because you keep talking to each other. You keep picking at the wound. Let the wound heal. Stop talking for a few months, then talk to each other. Move on from each other and then see where you both are after that.
Closure is a myth.
Time.
Time is what is needed for two people to move on.
I had a friend who was talking about the need for closure and I was telling her everything she didn't want to hear, but it was the truth not some garbage she was hoping to have reinforced by someone older.
She asked me, "Well, how did you move on? You seem like the most independent person I know and like you don't need anyone. How do you do it."(Internally rolling my eyes)
"Well, I just don't talk about it. And time. I've remained friends with all of my ex's, but not right off the bat. We didn't talk, we moved onto other relationships and then we became friends.
The "closure" happened months, years later and not because of anything that was said, it was time."
Here's another thought. I don't talk about my ex's. I'm sure some people might think I never date or have sex, because believe it or not unless you are a close friend, I see no need to blab about it to everyone I encounter. (Obviously, the blog is my outlet.)People who seek closure are perhaps the one who have done something wrong in the relationship. Maybe the people who seek closure are the ones who have the need to make-up, heal because of something they did wrong.
In all of my major relationships I was cheated on. I had no need for closure. I just needed to heal. The men, within a few months, all called me up and left some sort of message on my machine when they knew I wouldn't be home apologizing and wanting to talk to me. Within a day or two I would call. They needed closure, they were sorry.
K.
I've moved on. You messed up. You had a good thing and YOU messed up. YOU cheated on ME.If you need to talk, then talk, but I'm not going to forgive you if that's what you're looking for. Deal with it. The "closure" you're seeking from me? It ain't gonna happen.
Maybe the ones who seek the myth called closure are really the ones who messed up in some way in the relationship.I've never messed up, (seriously, cheating was the breaking factor in all of the realtionships. Dating, that's another story, but relationships I had no need for closure. No messing up on my part and all of the men will back me up on this. I'm a damn good girlfriend. I just choose badly. Anyway.)
Closure is a myth. Time is the reality that pain takes time to heal.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Boo hooo
I'm coming down with another f'ing cold. Sore throat came on last night. Ughhhhhhhhhhh. This is only the second cold I've had in all of 2010. I blame lack of sleep, 20 sick kids that sneeze on ya, not pretty.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Winter Blues
I’m sad.
The beauty behind this, is that I knew it was coming. I could feel it- the same way you feel autumn on a really hot August day. A breeze wanders through your hair and you smell fall, you smell change. And you promise yourself that you are going to capture every last ray of summer because you know colder weather is coming and you want to put it off for as long as possible. You attempt to hold onto something that you can’t keep. Yes, it’s exactly like that.
When I say I’m sad, I don’t mean I feel like crying. Crying implies effort, and that is something I can’t afford to waste on tears. And there’s no reason. Or there’s too many- the post holiday slump leaves me feeling nostalgic for days I won’t see again for a long time, the sun is hardly out, I miss people I don’t see, I’ve got 5 hours of sleep in the last two days, I am about to mark an anniversary no one should ever mark. And of course, there’s the knowledge that such sweeping feelings of melancholy run in my family. For some reason, knowing that it runs in my family makes me feel like I have a free pass to a club no one wants to join.
Today everything seems like too much effort. Showering, dressing, brushing my hair. I want to lay down in blankets and nap. I don’t want to answer the phone, the door or an email. I want to sleep until I feel better, until I feel different- but if I’m not awake- how will I know anything has changed?
I know this will pass. I will go out into the grey afternoon and blaze a trail running through the woods until I reach the lake until I’m out of breath. I will do this because I know that exercise will make me feel better. I will come inside and make plans with friends who know how to make me laugh and when to let me cry. I will call them because I know that talking to others will make me feel better. I will return home, have a hot shower and lay freshly scrubbed in dryer-warmed pajamas. I will make this effort because I know it will make me feel better. I will close my eyes and search for sleep. Pray for sleep. Because I know sleep will make me feel better.
And I will wake up tommorrow and hope that I will feel better.
The beauty behind this, is that I knew it was coming. I could feel it- the same way you feel autumn on a really hot August day. A breeze wanders through your hair and you smell fall, you smell change. And you promise yourself that you are going to capture every last ray of summer because you know colder weather is coming and you want to put it off for as long as possible. You attempt to hold onto something that you can’t keep. Yes, it’s exactly like that.
When I say I’m sad, I don’t mean I feel like crying. Crying implies effort, and that is something I can’t afford to waste on tears. And there’s no reason. Or there’s too many- the post holiday slump leaves me feeling nostalgic for days I won’t see again for a long time, the sun is hardly out, I miss people I don’t see, I’ve got 5 hours of sleep in the last two days, I am about to mark an anniversary no one should ever mark. And of course, there’s the knowledge that such sweeping feelings of melancholy run in my family. For some reason, knowing that it runs in my family makes me feel like I have a free pass to a club no one wants to join.
Today everything seems like too much effort. Showering, dressing, brushing my hair. I want to lay down in blankets and nap. I don’t want to answer the phone, the door or an email. I want to sleep until I feel better, until I feel different- but if I’m not awake- how will I know anything has changed?
I know this will pass. I will go out into the grey afternoon and blaze a trail running through the woods until I reach the lake until I’m out of breath. I will do this because I know that exercise will make me feel better. I will come inside and make plans with friends who know how to make me laugh and when to let me cry. I will call them because I know that talking to others will make me feel better. I will return home, have a hot shower and lay freshly scrubbed in dryer-warmed pajamas. I will make this effort because I know it will make me feel better. I will close my eyes and search for sleep. Pray for sleep. Because I know sleep will make me feel better.
And I will wake up tommorrow and hope that I will feel better.
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
MIA
It's been a while :) I've been under the weather with a cold and strep. Not pretty. I'm taking care of myself and will be back in full affect in a few days. I think.
Love,
A
Love,
A
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Funny
Me: I don't know why she continues to stalk my blog.
Friend: Dont be so shocked!
Me: Why not?
Friend: Because you're young, blonde, and hot!!!
Me: I owe you my first born for that!
Friend: Dont be so shocked!
Me: Why not?
Friend: Because you're young, blonde, and hot!!!
Me: I owe you my first born for that!
Monday, December 14, 2009
All I Want for Christmas...
Can I tell you something? If one more person asks me what I want for Christmas I may say a grenade launcher. So I can- wait, I’m not going to finish that sentence. It would be crossing a line. I’m not sure if it’s PMS or the fact that I’m just tired, but pondering the destruction I would like to create if one more person asks what they can get me to celebrate the birth of baby J, seems a bit over the top. Even for me.
Here’s the thing. For me, being asked what I want for Christmas is about as enjoyable as getting a pap smear. Because I’m not one of those people who formulates lists of what I want (and yes the fact that I can easily whip up a list of why I should be First Lady, but struggle to come up with a list of what I want PEOPLE TO BUY FOR ME has not been lost).
Besides the fact that I don’t have a zillion random ideas off the top of my head, I dislike the part where people judge what you say you DO want. For example:
Well-meaning gift buyer: Maya, have you given any thought as to what you want for Christmas?
Me: Um no. I guess maybe.. some shoes? Or some books? I could use a new desk lamp…
Well-meaning gift buyer: What’s wrong with the lamp you have now?
Me: Well nothing really. I just think, I could move the one I have to my beside table and then-
Well-meaning gift buyer: What?! That is ridiculous! You are a fool and a scally-wag for even suggesting such a thing! A pox on your house young lady! A POX ON YOUR HOUSE!
Okay, so I exaggerate.
Seriously though, I’m not sure when I stopped really having a list of things I want. It wasn’t as though one snowy Christmas I decided to swallow a boring pill and stop imagining, stop wishing. It just feels like, with each Christmas my list of things that I want that can be bought and wrapped with a pretty ribbon- decreases. Sure, I could say I want anything from my Christmas list last year , but I suspect if I didn’t get a diamond encrusted toothbrush for my birthday I might not be getting it now.
What I want nobody can give me, but this isn’t to say I don’t want. Oh goodness, I want. I want another hour in everyday so I can sleep-in without guilt. I want to know what to say to those people I don’t know what to say to anymore. I want my cashier at Safeway to look like she’s not going to kill herself if I say I don’t need my milk in a bag. I want to teach a grade 3 class where everyone can tie their own shoes. I want to do nothing without feeling like I should be doing something. I want someone to uncover a lost season of The West Wing. I want rainbows scheduled every Sunday, world peace and ovens to smell less like DEATH and more like gingerbread when they are self-cleaning.
And if you can figure out how to wrap up any of that in a bow, I will stop talking about the grenade launcher. Actually, if you get me the diamond encrusted toothbrush, ( or anything from La Perla, I will stop talking about the grenade launcher.
I promise.
Here’s the thing. For me, being asked what I want for Christmas is about as enjoyable as getting a pap smear. Because I’m not one of those people who formulates lists of what I want (and yes the fact that I can easily whip up a list of why I should be First Lady, but struggle to come up with a list of what I want PEOPLE TO BUY FOR ME has not been lost).
Besides the fact that I don’t have a zillion random ideas off the top of my head, I dislike the part where people judge what you say you DO want. For example:
Well-meaning gift buyer: Maya, have you given any thought as to what you want for Christmas?
Me: Um no. I guess maybe.. some shoes? Or some books? I could use a new desk lamp…
Well-meaning gift buyer: What’s wrong with the lamp you have now?
Me: Well nothing really. I just think, I could move the one I have to my beside table and then-
Well-meaning gift buyer: What?! That is ridiculous! You are a fool and a scally-wag for even suggesting such a thing! A pox on your house young lady! A POX ON YOUR HOUSE!
Okay, so I exaggerate.
Seriously though, I’m not sure when I stopped really having a list of things I want. It wasn’t as though one snowy Christmas I decided to swallow a boring pill and stop imagining, stop wishing. It just feels like, with each Christmas my list of things that I want that can be bought and wrapped with a pretty ribbon- decreases. Sure, I could say I want anything from my Christmas list last year , but I suspect if I didn’t get a diamond encrusted toothbrush for my birthday I might not be getting it now.
What I want nobody can give me, but this isn’t to say I don’t want. Oh goodness, I want. I want another hour in everyday so I can sleep-in without guilt. I want to know what to say to those people I don’t know what to say to anymore. I want my cashier at Safeway to look like she’s not going to kill herself if I say I don’t need my milk in a bag. I want to teach a grade 3 class where everyone can tie their own shoes. I want to do nothing without feeling like I should be doing something. I want someone to uncover a lost season of The West Wing. I want rainbows scheduled every Sunday, world peace and ovens to smell less like DEATH and more like gingerbread when they are self-cleaning.
And if you can figure out how to wrap up any of that in a bow, I will stop talking about the grenade launcher. Actually, if you get me the diamond encrusted toothbrush, ( or anything from La Perla, I will stop talking about the grenade launcher.
I promise.
Friday, December 11, 2009
A Simple Wish
Peace.
I’ve been thinking a lot about this word lately. It’s been coming up in Christmas carols and is stamped on my holiday cards. My glossy magazines are encouraging me to find it in myself and Oprah raves of how it’s changed her life. We wish it upon others, in the hope they can find a content calmness and we admire those who’ve attained it (The Dali Lama, I’m talking to you) for themselves.
I’m a person who struggles with peace. I’m a woman who reviews my mistakes regularly. Reflection is my self-imposed torture device. I lay awake thinking of the man I turned away, the shoes I didn’t buy, the trip I didn’t take. I bring up each memory, recounting every detail. And then, I fold it gently back up into my brain and bring down the next one off the shelf. A constant barrage of “You should have…”, “Why didn’t you…”, “That was awful that you..” ring through my ears. It’s hard to find inner peace when you want to curb stomp the part of you that is always so quick to judge. Who highlights what you wish you could forget. Who types up your flaws in 36 point font and flashes them in your head when you should be counting sheep.
Recently however, I’ve found myself feeling more peaceful. My life has not changed dramatically, yet I’m feeling more content than I have in a long time. Of course I still think of what I’ve done wrong in my life, but without the help of Oprah or repeated viewings of Star Wars, I’ve found a way to forgive myself. For the mistakes that I made, the words I can’t take back, the people I let go.
Who knows how long this moment of Zen will last. Whether I will go to sleep tonight and dream of George Clooney or lay uncomfortably in my bed recalling how awful I was that I once made my grade 6 crush cry, eventually I will sleep. And if I do fall off the Peace wagon, I will try again tomorrow. I will think of what has past and how I cannot change anything but now. I will wish to remember how good it feels when I realize I’m not angry about anything. How much better my body feels when it isn’t curled tight, each muscle filled with anxiety. How much more I enjoy sharing compliments than complaints. How it feels to have a light heart.
I will wish for peace.
I’ve been thinking a lot about this word lately. It’s been coming up in Christmas carols and is stamped on my holiday cards. My glossy magazines are encouraging me to find it in myself and Oprah raves of how it’s changed her life. We wish it upon others, in the hope they can find a content calmness and we admire those who’ve attained it (The Dali Lama, I’m talking to you) for themselves.
I’m a person who struggles with peace. I’m a woman who reviews my mistakes regularly. Reflection is my self-imposed torture device. I lay awake thinking of the man I turned away, the shoes I didn’t buy, the trip I didn’t take. I bring up each memory, recounting every detail. And then, I fold it gently back up into my brain and bring down the next one off the shelf. A constant barrage of “You should have…”, “Why didn’t you…”, “That was awful that you..” ring through my ears. It’s hard to find inner peace when you want to curb stomp the part of you that is always so quick to judge. Who highlights what you wish you could forget. Who types up your flaws in 36 point font and flashes them in your head when you should be counting sheep.
Recently however, I’ve found myself feeling more peaceful. My life has not changed dramatically, yet I’m feeling more content than I have in a long time. Of course I still think of what I’ve done wrong in my life, but without the help of Oprah or repeated viewings of Star Wars, I’ve found a way to forgive myself. For the mistakes that I made, the words I can’t take back, the people I let go.
Who knows how long this moment of Zen will last. Whether I will go to sleep tonight and dream of George Clooney or lay uncomfortably in my bed recalling how awful I was that I once made my grade 6 crush cry, eventually I will sleep. And if I do fall off the Peace wagon, I will try again tomorrow. I will think of what has past and how I cannot change anything but now. I will wish to remember how good it feels when I realize I’m not angry about anything. How much better my body feels when it isn’t curled tight, each muscle filled with anxiety. How much more I enjoy sharing compliments than complaints. How it feels to have a light heart.
I will wish for peace.
Sunday, December 06, 2009
How Do You Know?
If he always gives you the last bite of his sandwich or the first lick of his ice cream cone, then he loves you.
If he’s seen your high school prom photo and says he still loves you, then he loves you.
If he’s counted all your freckles,- even the ones behind your knees, then he loves you.
If, right before sleep, he leans in, buries his nose in your hair and inhales, and when you ask what he’s doing, he smiles a smile that reminds you of a secret and says ‘nothing’, then he loves you.
If he tells you that you make chickenpox sexy, then he loves you. He’s lying, but he loves you.
If he’s laid beside you in a too small bed, in a lit up room and listened as you told him all the ways you feel like you are failing, then he loves you.
If he remembers the name of your arch enemy from the sixth grade and hates her because he knows all about how she started the rumor that you only used boys deodorant, when you didn’t- then he loves you. And he hates her. But he loves you.
If he’s ever attempted to wash your hair because you said that scene in “Out of Africa” really gets you, then he loves you.
If he makes sure that you never have to sit beside his friend Michael, the one who never washes his hair, calls his penis “Frankie the Pork Sword” and smells like the bottom of a dumpster, then he loves you.
If you are Jennifer Anistan, then he loves you.
If he’s consumed your mom’s burnt chicken, let your brother win the basketball game and laughed too long and too hard at your dad’s jokes, then he loves you.
If he told you how him and his cousin ran out of school on the first day to get to their Mommies, then he loves you. Or, he’s made up the story to get into your pants. But he could love you.
If he tells you, “I don’t know how to fix this, but I want to”, then he loves you.
If he sits through “The Hills” every Monday night, then he loves you. And possibly Heidi. But he loves you.
If he introduces you to his daughter, then he loves you.
If during hour five of an eight hour roadtrip, he sees you are bored and flips the radio station to a horrifying boy band song and begins to serenade you with his best falsetto, while keeping the beat with his hand tapping your knee, and refuses to quit until you laugh, then he loves you.
If he’s ever bought you tampons, then he loves you.
If, while vertical, sober, and full clothed, and without hope or agenda, he tells you that he loves you, then he loves you.
If he knows exactly what scene in “Gone with the Wind” that makes you cry the hardest, and he waits until the movie is over before he begins to make fun of you for crying in the first place, then he loves you.
If his favorite stories are the ones of you as a kid, if he calls you ‘monkey’ in front of his friends, if he remembers that you like the kleenex with the lotion in it, if he allows you to use clorox all over the house, if he lets you eat his french fries when you know they are his favorite, if he makes small talk with your grandmother when you can’t deal with her crazy, if he tells you that your cute victory dance is worth his own defeat, if he checks the road conditions before you leave for a trip, if he’s ever attempted to sew a button on your favorite dress when you are running late, then he loves you.
Thats how you know!
If he’s seen your high school prom photo and says he still loves you, then he loves you.
If he’s counted all your freckles,- even the ones behind your knees, then he loves you.
If, right before sleep, he leans in, buries his nose in your hair and inhales, and when you ask what he’s doing, he smiles a smile that reminds you of a secret and says ‘nothing’, then he loves you.
If he tells you that you make chickenpox sexy, then he loves you. He’s lying, but he loves you.
If he’s laid beside you in a too small bed, in a lit up room and listened as you told him all the ways you feel like you are failing, then he loves you.
If he remembers the name of your arch enemy from the sixth grade and hates her because he knows all about how she started the rumor that you only used boys deodorant, when you didn’t- then he loves you. And he hates her. But he loves you.
If he’s ever attempted to wash your hair because you said that scene in “Out of Africa” really gets you, then he loves you.
If he makes sure that you never have to sit beside his friend Michael, the one who never washes his hair, calls his penis “Frankie the Pork Sword” and smells like the bottom of a dumpster, then he loves you.
If you are Jennifer Anistan, then he loves you.
If he’s consumed your mom’s burnt chicken, let your brother win the basketball game and laughed too long and too hard at your dad’s jokes, then he loves you.
If he told you how him and his cousin ran out of school on the first day to get to their Mommies, then he loves you. Or, he’s made up the story to get into your pants. But he could love you.
If he tells you, “I don’t know how to fix this, but I want to”, then he loves you.
If he sits through “The Hills” every Monday night, then he loves you. And possibly Heidi. But he loves you.
If he introduces you to his daughter, then he loves you.
If during hour five of an eight hour roadtrip, he sees you are bored and flips the radio station to a horrifying boy band song and begins to serenade you with his best falsetto, while keeping the beat with his hand tapping your knee, and refuses to quit until you laugh, then he loves you.
If he’s ever bought you tampons, then he loves you.
If, while vertical, sober, and full clothed, and without hope or agenda, he tells you that he loves you, then he loves you.
If he knows exactly what scene in “Gone with the Wind” that makes you cry the hardest, and he waits until the movie is over before he begins to make fun of you for crying in the first place, then he loves you.
If his favorite stories are the ones of you as a kid, if he calls you ‘monkey’ in front of his friends, if he remembers that you like the kleenex with the lotion in it, if he allows you to use clorox all over the house, if he lets you eat his french fries when you know they are his favorite, if he makes small talk with your grandmother when you can’t deal with her crazy, if he tells you that your cute victory dance is worth his own defeat, if he checks the road conditions before you leave for a trip, if he’s ever attempted to sew a button on your favorite dress when you are running late, then he loves you.
Thats how you know!
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